Cancan Français
by Delia Soul
Summary: Sequel to "Confessions of a Diamond Dog". In 1906 Montmartre, a destitute Nini attempts to pick up the pieces of her life, and recieves unexpected help. **Ch. 6 up** R&R, please...Nini would thank you. (BTW, this ch. may not make sense-- it will later)
1. October, 1955

October, 1955--  
  
  
Life is full of surprises.  
I feel that I can confidently comment on life, since, at the age of eighty-two, I have lived quite a lot of it. Eighty-two years. Two lifetimes when I was a girl. Then, we had little hope of living this long, but now...now, people can do anything. It really is a magical time, _mes amis_, don't let anyone tell you otherwise.   
I witnessed some of this magic tonight, in fact. The marvel that they call the motion picture, the marvel of celluloid, the marvel of projected image. Of cinema. Normally I would never go to such a thing-- to be entertained by flat images on a screen? To be pacified by rehearsed, dead lines, to see through a camera? No, never! Give me real entertainment, give me that dance halls, give me the theater! Do not try and show me these images and tell me that this is life. It isn't even close.  
It is blasphemy, and it was what I was forced to endure in the name of family.  
It was my son who brought me there tonight. Come, Maman, he said, his eyes shining, still very much a child even at fifty-four years of age. Come, watch this! I know you'll like it! Come on!  
Reluctantly I went with him, to drown myself in idiocy with a crowd of ignorants, to waste two hours of my life in a dark room, crammed into an uncomfortable seat, with my shoes sticking to the floor. The lights dimmed down and the curtain drew back, and for a moment I hoped that my son was joking, that he had taken me to a real show, but then the screen flickered and my hopes were dashed.   
At first, I wasn't sure what I was seeing. There was a great flurry of motion, a burst of sound, and then the title reared onto the screen, huge and bold.   
_French Cancan_.   
_French Cancan?_ That was the name of the film? They made a film about my dance, about the one thing I was ever good for in my life, the only thing I can truly feel proud of when I look back on my youth? They blasphemed _my_ dance? I bristled with anger at the arrogance of the producers, the director and star. French Cancan indeed! They wouldn't know a _true_ cancan if it bit them on the...  
my son hissed at me. Look at the main character! Look at her name!  
I grumbled and turned my eyes upwards, still cursing at the creators of this sacrilege. And then...then I saw it. I saw the credit.   
Starring Françoise Arnoul as Nini_..'  
NINI?_  
I was stunned. Nini? _Nini!_ They had _dared_ to use that name? My name, the only name I'd ever known? Those arrogant, selfish, stealing bastards! I leaned over and hissed in my son's ear. This is ridiculous, I told him flatly. I won't watch this.  
Please, Maman, he pleaded. Just give it a try! It might not be...well, _so_ bad.  
  
All right, I'm sorry. I didn't think you would take it so bad.  
I'm not angry at you, I told him. But please, _mon cher_, promise me you'll never, _ever_ take me to another one of those trifles again in my life, won't you? Your mother is old! She doesn't have _time_ to waste two hours on such nonsense!  
My son sat in his armchair, his pipe dangling listlessly from his mouth, the smoke mixing with the smell of paint and turpentine that filled the room. I'm sorry, he said simply. Gabrielle thought you would like it.  
I snorted. Ah, what your wife knows about the Moulin is from that silly romance novel she's read a thousand times over. I've told you time and time again, the man was half-mad with love, and then half-mad with grief. He glossed over everything. I sighed. I suppose he was an all right writer, if that's what you happen to like. But this...this was a pack of lies, made to make money. None of it was true.  
my son looked at me, his eyebrow arched. Maman, what do you mean?  
_French Cancan_, I told him. The story of a penniless young woman named Nini who is brought to the Moulin Rouge by an unscrupulous owner and is made into the Queen of the Cancan. He published a play with that plot in 1908. If you find it in one of those delightfully Bohemian bookshops you're so fond of frequenting, you'll see that it's the same story. Oh, yes, they put in a few fictional details, of course...but the story, _my_ story, is the same.   
It took a moment for him to fully digest this. Your...your story? I thought he only wrote--  
_Moulin Rouge?_ I asked. Yes, that's what he's most known for. But he wrote other plays, other books. I smiled. And believe me, mon cher, Satine wasn't his only muse.  
Not his only one? He leaned back, exhaling smoke gently. How do you know this? he asked.  
It's simple, I said. I know because I was one, too.   



	2. August 26, 1901

  
August 26, 1901--  
  
Perhaps my story is not unique in history, perhaps it is not as intriguing as a love triangle, as powerful as a betrayal, as dangerous as a stolen kiss or forbidden glance. It may be none of these, but what makes it important is that it is _my_ story, _mes amis_, and I feel that it deserves the same respect as anyone elses.  
To begin to tell of my life after the Moulin Rouge, I must begin with another life. This life would become the most important one in the world to me, although I hardly knew it when it began. When it began, I only wished for it to end.   
I was about in the fifteenth minute of labour when I came to the decision that this would be the first and last child to come from Nini Legs-in-the-Air. The pain ripped through my body in a great wall of fire that seemed to consume me from the inside out. I grabbed at the sheets, attendants, anything, to fight down the screams that otherwise would have torn the charity hospital apart. I was vaguely aware that I could catch an infection and fall under the same fate as my own mother, dead days after my birth, but little of that mattered now, and I was concentrated wholly on getting this...this _thing_ out of my body.  
When it was finally over, I lay very still on the bed, holding a tiny, squirming baby in my arms. My eyes were open slightly, staring up at the sign painted above my bed. _Dieu est Amour. _At the moment, lying in pain, surrounded by shivering bodies and the smell of sickness and death, I was having a great deal of trouble believing that. The new life in my arms gave a soft cry, diverting my thoughts back to the task at hand. His mouth sought out my breast and I gave it to him hurridly, hoping to occupy him for a few minutes so that I could get some rest. I had just closed my eyes and was drifting away when I heard a familiar pattern of footsteps come my way, down the aisle crowed on either side with beds full of unfortunate women in unfortunate conditions. It was a heavy, teetering gait, puncuated with the sharp _tap-tap_ of a cane. It was a gait I knew well, but never expected to hear in this place. The footsteps stopped as they got to my bed, and there was a creaking as a small figure sat on the edge.   
I opened my eyes and smiled at the man who sat there. I asked, almost thinking that the pain had driven me mad. I...what a surprise! I didn't think you would come.  
He looked aghast. Not _come? _What on Earth do you mean, not come? Do you really think I could miss something like this?  
I leaned back and sighed. I just thought...well, I just didn't think you'd be here, that's all.  
He shook his head. He grinned as he looked at me and at the baby cradled in my arms. _Mon Dieu_, Nini. What _have_ you got there?  
I smiled warmly as I touched the tiny head, already covered in thick, dark hair. A new little artist. He just don't know it yet.  
May I...?  
I nodded and held the baby out to him, yawning as he took him. Henri looked down at the baby in awe, his eyes lighting up from behind his spectecles. he said softly, touching the child's nose gently. You've really tuckered out your mother, haven't you?  
I smiled. I'll heal. I thought you were in...what was it, Normandy? I asked, remembering his stay at a seaside resort to help him overcome his drinking.  
He shook his head. No, I'm going back home, to stay with Mother for a while. He laughed as the child opened his eyes. He's got your eyes, Nini!  
And your hair, I commented. Dare say he'll look like a bear before too long.  
You...you haven't told anyone, have you?  
I shook my head. Not a soul. I paused. You know what the doctor said when he saw me?  
  
He said, Mademoiselle, do you know what the least filled-in box on a birth certificate is?' I bristled as the memory of his casual demenour. To think that he'd say something like that! To a woman going into labour, of all things!  
Henri shook his head in agreement and smiled down at the child in his arms. I'm only going home for a few days, he told me. Then I'll come back to Montmartre, I promise.  
What good will it do? I asked. Satine is dead. You can't make another play for her.  
He smiled softly at me. Not for Satine, Nini. For you.  
I narrowed my eyes. Me? How do you mean?  
I mean that I...well, I don't know exactly how to put it. He stole a glance around the crowded room and leaned down to whisper in my ear. I want you to be Nini de Toulouse-Lautrec. I want, he looked at the baby again. To be able to fill in that box on the birth certificate.  
Nini de Toulouse...I couldn't have just heard those words! I looked at him in shock for a moment before I shook my head. It'll never work, I told him. You marry _me_? And what will your family say, might I ask you that?  
Screw my family! he cried, then hushed us as he saw the glare from the nun who watched over us with an eagle eye. They haven't given a damn about me in twenty years and I'm more than happy to return the favour. You will do it, won't you? Marry me, I mean?  
I sighed. We'll see, Henri, I said. I love you...at least, I _think_ I do, but...but I don't know how good a wife I can _make_ you. You need someone who's kind, and nurturing and paitent, and I'm none of that. I just don't...  
Patient? Nurturing? I'm not an infant, Nini! I'm thirty-six years old, for God's sake. I think that by now, I can take care of myself. he looked at me beseechingly. Please? For _his_ sake, if no one else's.  
I looked from him to the child he held so lovingly in his arms, and smiled despite the storm in my mind. My entire life, I had promised myself that I wouldn't become the poor sap that got lost in their customer's eyes, that I wouldn't listen to promises. It was how I survived in that beautiful, soul-crushing place called the Moulin Rouge. Perhaps it was my exhaustion that made me so weak, in mind as well as body, but despite my promises, at the moment I could think of nothing else but grey in my hair as I watched my grandchildren play in the countryside I'd dreamt so much about, of sitting in front of a roaring fire when the snowflakes began to fall, of falling asleep to the sound of my husband's breathing. My husband. Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. At that moment, it was all I wanted in the world. I said simply. Oui, I will. Now, I reached out and held his hand. What you need to to is go to your mother and dry out. It'll do me no good, marrying a drunkard.  
He laughed and handed the baby back to me. I held him gently and looked at his father as he spoke. What did you name him?  
I smiled. Henri, after his father, I answered. _Henri Pattes. _It's the only last name I've ever known.  
He leaned over the bed and kissed me on the forehead. Not for long. Au revoir, ma cherie. I've got a train to catch. I'll come back soon, I promise.  
Come back sober, I laughed, and kissed him. Can't have you staggering down the aisle, now can I?  
He got up and touched my face for a moment, looking at it as if he were memorising every curve, every line, and then he turned and walked away between the rows of beds, his cane tapping along beside him. As he got to the door, he stopped and turned around. I love you! he called out, completely ignoring the request for silence painted above the door. Don't forget that!  
_Je t'aime!_ I called back, and laughed as he left the room, swaying in his peculiar manner.  
It would be that last time I ever saw him.  



	3. September 14, 1901

September 14, 1901--  
  
...In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our brotherHenri; and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious unto him and give him peace. Amen.  
I watched at the priest sprinkled the water onto his grave, watched as the mourners threw small bundles of flowers down into the grave, watched as the women honked into their black scented handkerchiefs. I watched it all from the edges of the cemetery, from behind a cluster of crooked tombstones and the gently swaying branches of a willow that creaked painfully above me. After a few more prayers and condolences the mourners turned away, their black cloaks fluttering in the wind, their voices hushed. I alone knew that their pity was strained, however. None of them cared, not really. He wasn't much to them, a disgrace even! He'd told me himself! How dare they come to mourn his death, when they had not an idea about his life.   
I waited until they had moved away, until the gravediggers had filled in the pit with dirt, until I knew that I wouldn't be disturbed in my solitary act. I clutched a small bouquet in my hand, crushed under the welcome weight I carried in my arms, a weight bundled against the cold, sleeping peacefully, wrapped in a blanket made from one of his mother's old cancan skirts. The brightest spot in the cemetery, and he was mine.   
My steps slowed down as I got nearer to the tiny grave, really no larger than that of a child's. The dirt was cold and crumbled under my touch to fall to the ground. I kneeled and brushed off a spray of dirt that had fallen onto the stone, rubbing at the letters with my finger. Henri Marie Raymonde de Toulouse-Lautrec Monfa. The name was larger than he was. I sighed and hugged my child closer to me. It didn't seem fair, that someone so full of life was planted _here_, where his only friends would be the dead. It didn't seem fair at all.  
So you came.  
I looked up at the sound of the voice, shielding my eyes from the sun. The woman standing above me stared down her nose at me, her eyes cold. Countess Adèle de Toulouse-Lautrec. I recognised her from a non-too-flattering portrait her son had showed me. I nodded and stood up, shushing my child as he began to squall. Oui, I came, I said. Did you really expect me to stay away?  
I don't know what I expected, she said. Certainly not for you to bring the _child_ here.  
Why shouldn't he be here? I asked her, tickling his cheek while I talked. He has just as much right as you, if not more.  
It was a stupid thing to say, and her face clouded up for a moment in anger. But instead of striking me, which I _know_ she wanted to do, she turned away and buried her face in her handkerchief. I...I almost wished to see you here, she whispered. I almost prayed for it, in fact.  
I asked, raising an eyebrow. And why's that?  
He...he asked me to tell you something, she said, looking at me in the eye. Just before he died, he said...he said Tell Nini I remembered my line.' She paused. It means nothing to me, but he kept saying it, poor dear. I...I had such a time tracking you down, I went everywhere in Montmartre, all over the place, and...and here you are. she nodded. So he wanted me to tell you that he remembered his line. I don't know...I don't know if that's something special between you, or what, but I...I promised him I would, and I... she paused, burying her face in her hand. _Mon Dieu_, this is so difficult for me...  
I'm sorry, I said simply. It's difficult for us all. He was a wonderful man. He'll be missed.  
I...yes, I suppose he will, she said, staring strongly at me. Nini...do you intend on keeping him? The child, I mean?  
Well, yes! I said, surprised. The thought of giving him up had never entered my mind. True, he was going to be a bit of a handful, and I could have used the extra money it would take to raise him...but I knew what happened to the unfortunate children of Paris, and I didn't want it to happen to him.   
Then, listen to me, she hissed. You mustn't tell anyone of his true heritage, do you hear me, Nini? No one must know! I will not try to make this easy, my dear, we weren't happy at all when he told us what had happened. It's a sin, to create a child out of wedlock, and you are very lucky that we stand for it at all. But I warn you, Nini, she said quietly, looking around the cemetery for anyone who may overhear. If you breathe word of this to anyone, _anyone_, you will live the rest of your days wishing you didn't. Do you understand me, Nini?  
I looked at her coolly. You can't frighten me, Madame, I said simply. You will have to do more than idle threats to attempt to scare me. But, I added. I will respect your wishes, if only because they were your son's, as well. But do not think that I do it out of respect for your family, respect that I have none of to begin with. Now, if you have nothing more to say...  
There is one thing, the countess said, looking down at my child. You must be very careful with your son, Nini, she warned me. He may have fragile bones, you must make sure that he never breaks one. I know that the life of...of unfortunate women like yourself is often not quite soft, but I implore you, keep him safe!  
I stared at her coldly. Unfortunate women? I asked. So, you're saying that because I'm a whore, I'll be a bad mother? Oh! I feigned surprise. I forgot, France doesn't have whores...just unfortunate women. I shook my head. In all my days, I'll never be able to understand people like you. I looked up at the clouded sky. Do think we'll be getting some rain, I said. I'd best get back to my miserable existence and leave you to yours. _Au revoir_, Madame. I turned, casting one last glance at the tiny grave before quickening my pace as a roll of thunder sounded in the distance. The child squirmed in my arms and I hugged him to my body tightly, singing softly down to him to ease him. _A magic day, he passed my way,_ I sang as I wove through the towering monuments of lives gone by. _And while we spoke of many thing, fools and kings, this he said to me: The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return._  



	4. April, 1906

Montmartre, April, 1906--  
  
Three hours. Surely you can spare three?  
I told you already, Nini, I can't do it! Monsieur Villard is very adamant that there are no children here.  
Camille, _please_, I begged her. He's in Lyons, you know that as well as I do! I've got to work, and I can't just leave him at _home._ Who's to care for him there? My landlord certainly won't. I sighed, holding his hand a little tighter, and put on my most pitiful face. _Please_, Camille. Only for a few hours. Then I'll find someone else to do it.  
The woman looked at me, and then to the boy by my side. She closed her eyes for a moment and gave a tight nod. Fine. Fine! But only for a few hours, Nini, you promise me?  
I smiled. Oui, oui, I promise! I'll come back around one. You can set your clock by me.  
And make sure you're sober.  
I nodded, then squatted down, smoothing the boy's jacket front. I told him gently, but sternly. Camille's going to watch after you for a while, all right? I've got to go. Oui, Maman, he smiled, blue eyes shining. Where are you going?  
I told him. Maman has to work.  
Where's work?  
Aa, Henri, you ask too many questions! Maman doesn't need to tell you everywhere she goes. Now, I said, staring at him sternly. You know the rules. Don't play with the matches, remember? They'll burn you.  
I know.  
And don't breathe any of that nasty white smoke, all right? It'll make you sick.  
He nodded. I know, Maman.  
And if anyone tries to take you outside, or away from Camille, what do you do?  
Scream loudly, he recited, and grinned. I remember, Maman.  
I smiled and kissed his forehead. Now, you run off with Madame, and I'll see you at one. Goodbye, mon cher!  
I watched as Camille escorted Henri down the stairs into the dimly-lit den. I didn't really want to leave him there, but I had little choice. The streets of Montmartre that I called my workplace were no place for a child, especially one who's bones could shatter with a single fall. Oftentimes I could catch him looking at the other street Arabs in jealousy as they tumbled over bits of rubbish and wrestled on the pavement. I never allowed him to do any of those games, and for that, I think he harboured a sort of childish resentment of me. If he had, it certainly wouldn't have surprised me. He wouldn't be the first.   
It wasn't yet noon, but already the streets were crawling with drunkards, who shouted to each other and picked fights, or who slumped against the buildings, dazed, as gamins picked at their pockets. I drew my shawl tighter up around my shoulders as I passed by them, quickening my pace a little. These were the ones I hated, these were the ones I tried to avoid. At the Moulin, I could at least lose myself in the fact that they were well-dressed and were drunk on high-priced spirits. But out here on this muddy street, with the sky clouded up and my pockets nearly empty, I could only see them for what they were-- drunks. And they disgusted me.  
A fat man with a scarlet nose belched a cloud of whiskey into my face as I passed him. Hey, _ma cherie_, why don't you give it a suck?  
Ah, piss off! I growled back. Go home and get your wife to do it, and leave me alone!  
There was a roar of laughter from his friends, and his face turned beet red, his hands clenching into fists. Aa, go on with ya, you two-bit whore! You ain't worth it, anyway!  
I ignored him and continued on my way, stepping aside from a man vomiting into the gutter. I was almost to a pub I frequented where I knew I could get some business, and perhaps some _sober_ business, when a tall man in an ill-fitting tweed jacket stumbled out of the alleyway to my left, belching and nearly falling on top of me. I cried in surprise, stepping away. _Mon Dieu_, you startled me!  
He rubbed his eyes and looked at me in such a way that it made me uncomfortable. He lurched forward and rested his head on my shoulder, his sour breath forcing its way up my nose. _Je bande pour toi. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce matin?  
_I smiled at him, pushing to the back of my mind the fact that it used to be _me_ saying those words, calling the shots. It used to be a privilege. Now it was my calling card. I looked further back down the alley and nodded, taking his hand. Oui, Monsieur, I said, pulling him back into the yawning brick mouth. Now, come along. Let Mademoiselle take care of you, hmm? It's what Mademoiselle knows best.  
  
The bricks were rough and dug into my skin as his immense bulk crushed me against the wall. I could almost feel the repeating rectangular pattern crisscross my skin through my dress, the hard knobs of mortar dotting my flesh.   
The nameless man grunted a little, warm beery breath hitting my face like a fist. Fucking Hell, he muttered. Is it in?  
Of _course_ it's in, I grumbled. Now hurry up and be about your business.  
he growled, grabbing my arm and squeezing it tightly. I'll have none of your lip, Mademoiselle, or you'll have none of my money. You get me?  
I looked up at him sweetly and nodded. Ah, oui, Monsieur, I said softly. I understand perfectly. Now, please...?  
My mind began to drift as the gentleman went about his business' so to speak, until it was floating far above this dimly lit, dirty alley somewhere in the depths of Montmartre. It stayed close by, close enough so that I could keep tabs on it, but seemed disinterested in the proceedings and fought for its freedom. I was about to slap the reins on it and bring it back home, but then I caught something floating on a dusty breeze that meandered through the neighbourhood, something soft and sweet, something that shouldn't have been able to survive in this place.  
_It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside..._  
A song. A _song_, of all things! Music! A rare, delicate thing that I had long since abandoned and given up for dead! It had been so long since I'd heard music, and I mean _real_ music, _mes amis_, not the rude ballads of girls gone by heard in the pubs and on street corners, that I hardly knew what it was anymore.   
_I'm not one of those that can easily hide...  
_Where was it coming from? That song...I recognised it. I did, I truly did! It had been from something in my past, something that was important, something magical...but I couldn't remember. Six years of wallowing in the ignorance of Montmartre had denied me my knowledge of things I thought I could never forget. It wasn't fair.   
_I don't have much money, but boy, if I did...  
_Money? Oh, _Monsieur Chanteur_, whoever, wherever you were, what use did you have for money, when you possessed that which was so rare and beautiful? I, I Nini, who had lost it, had given it up-- I had need for money. Not you, whoever and wherever you were.   
_I'd buy a big house where we both could live.  
_ I lost myself in the song, lost myself in the memories of the past, which crept into my mind as quickly as I tried to banish them. For a moment I lost myself completely, and when I opened my eyes, I was back in that terrible, beautiful place, the Moulin Rouge. I shielded my eyes against the bright lights, the music thundering in my ears, the swirl of skirts blinding me in colour. I looked up, and laughed as I saw Satine swinging through the air, making love and breaking hearts. She caught my eyes for one brief moment, and my heart stopped in my chest as she stared at me, eyes like chips of ice, penetrating and judging. And she smiled. Smiled, _mes amis! _Laughed, and blew a kiss in my direction!   
she cried as she flew over the crowd. Nini, you rotten whore! Look at all this! Look what you had! You destroyed it, _ma cherie_, you know you did!  
You may judge me mad, _mes amis_, when I tell you this, but for a moment, pressed against a brick wall, beery breath on my face, grunting in my ear-- that was the sweetest sound in the world. _  
_


	5. The Encounter, 1906

The Encounter, 1906--   
  
  
  
...and Camille told me that it was called an _elephant_. Maman, did you ever see an elephant?  
Oui, I have, a long time ago. Henri! Get away from that box, you don't know where it's been.  
Henri frowned and drifted back to my side, his little face scrunched up. You don't let me have any fun.   
I said harshly. I want you to be safe, that's all. Is that any great sin?  
I could tell that he didn't understand, and we walked in silence for a moment, weaving through the crowds of people that clogged the street. I often forgot that I was speaking to a child, and spoke as I normally did. I will be the first to admit, I never once imagined myself in this position, and I most likely made a complete cock-up of a job, but I was trying my best under the circumstances.   
Henri tugged on my skirt excitedly. Look, there's a dog! Hurry, Maman, i want to see!  
I warned, but it was too late. Within the blink of an eye, he had torn from my side and was racing down the street, the bright blue of his cap bobbing among the trousers and skirts that pressed on all sides. Henri! Henri, get back here! _Henri!_ I fought my way through the pressing crowds, trying desperately to find him in the crush of people. _Don't let him fall,_ I thought to myself as I pushed past a flower cart. _For God's sake, don't let him fall..._The wave of people suddenly broke at an intersection, leaving me standing dumbly in the street, confused and lost. I turned my head quickly in all directions, panic beginning to well in my throat, my heart pounding as Henri was nowhere to be found. I quickened my pace and headed towards a bustling street full of shops, hoping beyond hope that he had been captivated by a window display and was waiting patiently for me to collect him. I couldn't see very well through the stalls and vendors, and pushed through a gaggle of faded Bohemians who stood at the entrance of a run-down cafe. I was about to give up and turn back...and then I heard him.  
the cry rose above the noises from the street. _Maman! Maman!  
_ I screamed, my heart sending new energy into my sluggish limbs, propelling me forward into the crush, blood pounding in my ears. Henri! Henri, where are you? _Henri!  
_I followed the sound of his cries and struggled through a patch of people that seemed determined to keep me from him. When I finally broke free, I could feel my heart plummet to the cold stones below and and my skin burn hot when I saw a man, neatly attired in a gray flannel suit and a trimmed brown beard, standing in the street, my son's hand in his own.   
I confess, _mes amis_, that I was not thinking at this time, I was not thinking about my own actions. All I was thinking about, all I knew, was that my child had got separated from me, and was now in the arms of a stranger, a stranger who might be violent, a stranger who might try and hurt him. It was in this state of mind that I leapt onto the back of the man who was holding his wrist, wrapping my arm around his neck and beating at his shoulder with my fist. Get your hands off him, you bastard! I screamed, my face hot with fury. I'll kill you, I'll damn well kill you!  
I continued like this for a moment, until a rough pair of hands grabbed me and pulled me off of the stranger and into a fierce grip, a gendarme's face leering down at me. What the Hell is all this? he barked. Go on, leave off!  
The gendarme held me back and I struggled against him, his fingers bruising my arms as I fought against his grip. _Let me go!_ I roared. I've done nothing wrong, let me go!  
Now, now, Mademoiselle, he chided me condescendingly. Let's not make this any harder than it has to be, shall we? You don't want the child to have to remember this, do you? He turned to the bearded stranger and smiled apologetically. Terribly sorry about all this, Monsieur, he said. These jades ain't normally violent...must be from Old Sal's. We'll soon have her back again.   
Old Sal's? I...no, they couldn't have thought I belonged _there_, of all places! I'm not mad! I argued. Don't put me..._I'm not mad!_ Now leave me alone!  
The bearded man must have decided that he'd had quite enough of the commotion, and held up his hand. I...no, Monsieur, it's quite all right. You may release her.  
The gendarme looked shocked. But Monsieur...  
It was an accident, the bearded man said. I didn't know it was her child, he looked like the child of a friend. There's no need for all of this.  
The gendarme still looked unconvinced, but released me. I tore out of his grasp and scooped Henri into my arms, rocking him gently as he wrapped his arms around my neck. he whispered. Maman, let's go, _please_.  
We will, I promised, and looked up as I heard a man call to me.  
Mademoiselle Nini! he laughed, watching us. What sort of a scrape have you got yourself into this time?  
Shut your fat face! I yelled back at him. If you were half the man you claim to be, than you'd--  
the voice came from the bearded man, the one who started this whole mess. I...Nini, my God! It's been years, I...I hardly recognise you!  
I could only stare at him coldly as Henri buried his face in my neck. Monsieur, I do not know you, I stated flatly, and I have no wish to. Now, if you've nothing more to say to me, I'll be on my way. That you so much for your prompt response, Monsieur, I said bitterly, curtsying to the gendarme. For without your help, I never would have known my mental state. Au reviour. I turned on my heel and began to walk down the street, ignoring the stares of the spectators that lined the pavement. I hadn't gone far, however, until something reached my ears that made me stop, something unusual, yet strangely familiar.  
_Why does my heart cry? Feelings I can't fight!  
_I turned to see the bearded man standing in the middle of the street, oblivious to the amused faces surrounding him. What the Hell... I muttered, watching as he took another breath.  
_You're free to leave me, but just don't deceive me...and please, believe me when I say I love you'... _he finished and looked at me, smiling a little. I'm sorry, I know it's been a while, and I'm sure you don't remember me too fondly...but I thought I might try and find you again.  
I narrowed my eyes and walked slowly back towards him, searching through all the faces I'd seen in my life, all blurred and mashed into one. But there was something familiar about him, something I remembered from years ago. I peered into his eyes, and thought that I saw something in there, something beyond what was reflected in the dirty street...something glamourous, full of light and sound and colour...and music. A world of music reflected in a single eye. And that is how I remembered, that is where it clicked.   
_Mon Dieu_, I whispered. 


	6. L'Étranger, 1906

  
  
L'Étranger, 1906--  
  
  
Nini, slow down! Christian laughed into his coffee. You'll choke to death, I know you will!  
I paused, chewing slowly and taking deep breath before swallowing, the thick bread and beans seeming to fall like cement into my empty stomach. I began, not really sure of how to start a conversation with him, what brings you back to Montmartre?  
He groaned and leaned back in his chair, and this illicited a giggle from the girl sitting next to him. She was perhaps in her early twenties, with a moon face and a bush of blonde curls, and seemed enraptured with everything Christian said. Sucess, Nini, is what drove me back, he lamented. My story, _our_ story, somehow without my knowledge, became a hit both nationally and abroad. Suddenly I had student pounding on my door, wanting to know how I'd done it, universities were inviting me to speak, and there's even talks of making a play of it. Apparently Sarah Bernhardt has taken an interest to it.  
my voice trailed off upon hearing this. Sarah Bernhardt, the great Sarah Bernhardt, was taking an interest in Christian's story? Oh, what cruel irony that would be, to see her onstage, playing a woman whos greatest dream was to be _her! _  
Christian continued, dabbing a scrap of bread in the dish of oil on the table. My editor was insistant that before the public forgets about me, as they so often do to new writers, I was to write another book, a new Moulin Rouge. He gave a florid sigh and looked around him, at the crumbling walls of the tenements and the ragged awenings of the shops. And where else could I write one besides Montmartre, where it all began? The moon-faced girl gave a little cough, and Christian smiled. Ah, yes! How could I possibly forget my manners in such a way? he motioned to her with a deep smile. Nini, this lovely little thing is named Constance. Constance, say _bonjour_ to Nini.  
Constance smiled and nodded, her cheeks reddening. _Bonjour_, Nini, she said, and looked back up to Christian. I did say that right, didn't I?  
She's just learning, he explained to me, and nodded. That was wonderful, my dear, he said, and nodded towards me. Nini was a dancer at the Moulin Rouge, back before it closed. Weren't you?  
Oh! The Moulin Rouge? Splendid! Constance clapped, her face bright. Christian's told me _so_ much about it. Tell me, did it really happen like he said? Like it was in the book?  
Christian cleared his throat, steering the conversation away from my answer. Now, there's no good living in the past, he said. That was six years ago, it may as well have been a lifetime! What I'm concerned about is here and now, and why shouldn't I be? he grinned, looking his arm around Constance's waist. With a hot cup of coffee in me and two lovely ladies by my side, the past can just fly away as far as I'm concerned.  
I'll admit, _mes amis_, I was a little taken aback by his casuallness. Was this the same Christian, I wondered, who had vowed never to live again, never to love, only a few years before? He was a different man! I'm sure Satine would _love_ to hear that, I couldn't help but say. God knows she never saw your affair as more than a flash in the pan.  
Christian looked at me, his eyes darkening. Nini, I...no.Christian reached out and gripped my arm, leaning over to whisper in my ear, his voice sharp. I'm not going to discuss that with you, not _now. _He cast a glance to Constance, who was twirling a strand of hair around her finger, smiling vacantly. Perhaps on a later date, but not in front of her. He released me with a smile and straightened up, tearing off another piece of bread. Yes, well...Satine wanted me to work on my stories, such as they are. I'd like to think that I'm following her wishes. He held out the bread, and Constance smiled seductivly before leaning foreward and plucking it from between his fingers with her teeth. I averted my eyes as he planted a kiss on her cheek and she blushed a deep crimson.   
Oh, Nini! she cried, her voice bubbling. What has your son got there?  
I turned to where Henri pulled himself back into his seat, pushing his food around on his plate in a listless manner. Clasped in his hand was a red carnation, the petals dirty from the road but still full of life, a crimson splash in this dingy corner of the world.   
And what do you have there, _petit garçon? _Christian asked, laughing. A present for your Maman?  
Henri nodded, his little fingers wrapped around the stem of the carnation. I found it, he said quietly, his blue eyes blazing. I didn't steal it!  
Shhh, Henri! I hissed between my teeth. I won't have talk like that from you, I won't stand for it!  
Christian laughed and Constance giggled, her moon face blushing although she couldn't understand what we were saying. Ah, Nini, don't snap at the boy, he's just trying to be nice to his mother. Here, give it here. Christian held out his hand and Henri tentitivly pressed the small flower into his palm, watching as Christian wiped the dirt off the petals gently with his napkin. He admired it for a moment, then reached over and poked the stem into a hole in my dress, the crimson contrasting sharply with the dark material. There you are, he smiled, leaning back and examining it. To charm all the men of Montmartre.  
Constance looked at her watch and frowned, putting her hand on Christian's arm. Christian, do look at the time, she sighed. I'm afraid we'll have to go if we want any chance of watching that play you're so insistant on seeing.  
Of course, lovely Constance, he smiled and stood up, taking my hand. It was wonderful to see you again, and rather surprising. I'll be sure to find you again.  
I was too startled to do much besides sit like an idiot, my mouth hanging open as the pair walked away, arm-in-arm. Mon Dieu... I whispered. What on Earth had _happened_ to that man?  
Henri pulled on my hand and looked up at me, his eyes wide and curious. Maman, who _were_ those people?  
I looked at Constance's retreating back, at Christian pointing with him umbrella to a balcony covered in flowers. I don't know, Henri, I admitted. I truly don't know.


End file.
